Thank God for Sewing Needles

Harry's no stranger to having girls on their knees in front of him.

Really. He's not.

They're all too willing to drop to the ground and begin fiddling with his trousers, shifting closer so that they can reach him easily. He's seen it all, from the way their eyes widen in awe to the teasing smirk they flash before they give him what he wants. Situations like that have never made him nervous.

He's nervous now, though.

Maybe it's just because it's you on your knees in front of him, but you're not exactly there to make him cum. Instead, you're poking and prodding at the seams of his pants, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you concentrate. Your hair is tied up in a bun, and your flowy purple dress brushes along the floor when you sit back on your heels, huffing out a sigh.

"How's that feel?"

"Hm?" Harry clears his throat, blinking rapidly to snap himself out of his stupor. "Oh. Good," he croaks out. "'S good."

"You sure?" you question, looking up at him skeptically. "Try moving around."

Harry steps off the small, elevated podium, taking a couple of experimental steps around the room before climbing back onto the platform with pursed lips. "'S a little loose."

"Yeah." You suck in air between your teeth. "That's what I was thinking. Come here."

You hold out your arms a little bit and he shuffles closer, suppressing the groan that nearly bursts forth from his lips. You've got one hand on the back of his thigh, using your grip as leverage to pull him in. Despite his better judgement, he glances down and is accidentally met with a full view down the front of your dress.

Bloody hell. He really doesn't need to be thinking about your breasts right now.

He feels embarrassed, standing in front of you as you eye the lower half of his body, and he prays to whatever cosmic powers that exist that his cock will cooperate.

"I—," you hesitate. "Can you spread your legs for me?"

Harry resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. Fuck.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, following your request. He makes the mistake of looking at the large mirror displayed proudly in front of him, and his knees nearly buckle. He sees himself standing there, and he sees your backside, your head level with his crotch. It looks like...it looks like...

He doesn't allow himself to finish that thought.

"I think...," you mumble half-finished sentences to yourself. Harry feels your fingers dance along the inside of his thigh, and he jumps.

"Sorry," you say, shooting him an apologetic smile. He shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders and willing himself to think about puppies, or flowers, or the waffles he'd scarfed down for breakfast this morning—anything but the fact that you're trailing your hand up his leg.

"The inner seam is probably our best bet," you utter, and Harry just nods, unable to speak. Your fingers are dangerously close to his groin now, and he wants to curse when he feels his cock give a faint twitch in his boxers.

Fucking traitor.

"If I take out this much—," you let the words linger in the air, gathering the extra fabric between your thumb and forefinger and folding in inward. You stare at the seam for a long moment before nodding and reaching for a sewing pin to secure the material in place. "Yeah. That should be good."

And then you're shuffling backwards and ambling up onto your feet, dusting off your knees as you shoot him a smile. "We're done!"

"Thank you, my humble servant," Harry thinks his grin may look a bit forced, but he throws in a little inside joke to keep you from noticing.